i wanna be your left hand man
by makapedia
Summary: It's too cliche for the best man to hook up with the maid of honor the night before the wedding.


"Do you think she's happy?"

Fakir chances a glance at her at the next red light. The traffic light washes her in rosy tones, and even through her squinted, sleepy eyes, he can still tell her mascara's finally begun to smudge. She's pretty, but Ahiru has always looked her best when she's not done up, he thinks - Ahiru's at her loveliest in oversized sweaters with the sleeves rolled up, in a long, messy braid and dark freckles, even as a sunburn colors her nose. It's weird, still, even after wedding rehearsals and dinners, for him to see her so done up.

It's weirder, somehow, to have this painted version of her in the passenger seat of his car. And still be awake at that.

He watches her bleary eyes blink. Watches her shift to turn and look at him too, so frank and Ahiru that his heartbeat catches in his throat, annoyingly so.

He swallows until it sinks back into his chest, where it belongs. "... Rue?"

"Yeah."

"She's marrying Mytho. I think she's happy."

Ahiru squirms, shuffling in her seat. The light switches to green, and Fakir takes his eyes off of her just as she's slipping her heels off and tucking her feet beneath her.

Then she sighs. "Yeah, but… this whole thing has been so stressful for her. For the both of them!"

For them, too. Ahiru hasn't slept a full eight hours in at least a month, he's sure. It's easy to read between her lines; she's an open book, for goodness sake, and the whole reason her mascara's given way to inky smudges beneath her lashes is because she can't stop rubbing her eyes.

"It's what she wanted," Fakir says, flicking on his turn signal.

"I know." A pause. And then. "I _know._ I was just thinking about how Rue's dad never even RVSP'd, and how Mytho's family is just weird and over protective, and… I don't know. But then I think about the way she keeps looking at him and then it all makes sense again. It's weird."

It's weird that they're even having the conversation in the first place. He'd half expected her to snore the entire trip back to her apartment. Been banking on it, even - it's been a long night for the both of them, and being Mytho's best man meant he had to stick annoyingly close to Rue's maid of honor all night.

Rue's maid of honor - _Ahiru._

He's not very good at handling crushes at all. It'd been a long evening of practice marches, of her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow as she struggled to match his cadence. Of touching up her lipgloss when she got too overzealous and forgot she was wearing makeup.

A very, _very _long evening of staring at her lip gloss along the rim of her glass of champagne.

His hands grip the steering wheel tighter as Ahiru sighs again and shifts her weight. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her rest her face against the seatbelt, even as the belt digs into her cheek.

"Do you ever want to get married someday, Fakir?"

Her voice sounds much too dreamy when she's like this, caught somewhere between sleep and reality. It's almost slurred, a little, but in a sweet way - like whatever's coming out of her mouth now is purely unfiltered, and he tries not to think too deeply into why this conversation is happening now, when car rides usually lull her to sleep, when she's certainly still a little tipsy off of her one glass of champagne.

So he lies. "I haven't really thought about it much."

(Of course he has. He's thought about it a thousand times, in a thousand different ways - but all roads lead back to her stupid, dopey smile and how much he likes it when she wears flowers in her hair).

The streetlights continue to wash her out. She exhales through her nose, discontented.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." She does a little half-shrug, still cradled by her seatbelt. It can't be comfortable, he thinks, but then she bulldozes forward, muttering, "I guess not everyone sits around and thinks about weddings anyway. I don't know why I thought you might."

Which is fair. When it comes to emotional openness, Fakir is probably not the first person to come to mind. Emotional _constipation _maybe. Beyond that, he supposes he's also probably not the textbook definition of hopeless romantic - that's always been more of Rue and Ahiru's department - but it doesn't mean he's completely void of feelings. Or completely void of yearning.

Quite the opposite. He dares himself not to bark out a laugh and correct her. Instead, he feigns innocence, in order to both maintain his image and also keep from rocking the boat. Really, who is he to think about marrying and spending forever with her when she's not his to dream about? Ridiculous.

Still. It feels wrong to let the conversation run dry. "Do you?"

Ahiru hums and nods sleepily. "I guess."

"You guess."

"... It used to be about Mytho," she admits, and there's a pinch of something in his chest - jealousy, he thinks, but of which he's not sure. "But he's Rue's, and they're a better match anyway. I guess… when I was younger it never really was anything serious. I think I just wanted him to be happy and have someone who looked out for him."

Fakir pulls the car into Ahiru's parking spot. Sits there for a moment, wondering if he should nudge her into action or allow her to keep lazing in the passenger seat, looking at him with those big blue eyes of hers. The engine hums, wipers squeaking, and it's only the white noise of the rain hitting the windshield that keeps him subdued for the moment. He can focus easily on that and ignore the way his blood has begun to inappropriately burn.

"But he has someone now. And so does Rue." He hears the click of her seatbelt, and then glances at her, foolishly, just in time to catch her stretching, toes pointed out, still pink and pruney from the sprint to the car.

Right. Fakir turns the key in the ignition and the car shudders to sleep. "You'll find someone," he says, resolutely.

She turns to look at him and god, eyes like that aren't fair. She could melt him right then and there, beneath the unassuming mistiness he finds, buried barely under crystal blue. "... Fakir?"

"What."

"You should just stay the night at my place." She says it so innocently that he knows she has no ulterior motives - plus she's Ahiru, and he's not sure she's ever had a horny thought in her life - but still, something gives way in his gut, and he festers there for a moment, caught between what he wants and what he _wants_. "I live way closer to the venue anyway, and you'd get to sleep an extra hour, _and _you're already picking me up anyway-"

"-I'd have to shower and change-"

"But you already have your stuff with you, don't you?" She tilts her head and her braid falls into the crook between shoulder and neck. "You always plan ahead."

"You don't have an extra bed."

The dweeb doesn't miss a beat. "You can have mine!"

"_No._"

"Pleaaase?" She pivots in her seat, and then her hands are over his, pulling him toward her, clutching his fingers between his, and dammit, _dammit_. "Stop being stubborn for once and just stay the night. It'll save you time! You love being efficient. And stuff."

And _stuff. _He's not sure he knows what that means. Besides. "I'm not letting you sleep on the couch. You have a long day ahead of you too. Just get out of the car, Ahiru."

The grip on his hands tighten, and Ahiru's cheeks puff out all cute, like a toddler being denied her favorite toy. "You can't make me."

.

Because he is both bigger and stronger than her, Fakir hauls her out of the passenger seat with relative ease. He may not be the toughest guy around - he's certainly not sporting any rippling muscles beneath his turtleneck sweater - but he's strong enough to heave her into his arms without much effort at all. Part of it, he thinks, is because she's such a tiny thing, too; Ahiru is maybe ninety-five pounds soaking wet, and still hasn't broken five feet. She fits in his princess carry perhaps too easily for his comfort.

Nonetheless, it's easy for him to forcefully carry her out of his car. Fakir nudges the passenger door shut with his foot and turns to beeline toward the stairwell, lest he allow this newly-minted princess to be waterlogged before she's even gotten out of her courtwear.

"Wh- _hey,_ waaait!"

The wiggle worming commences. He nearly catches an elbow to the face before he hugs her closer to his chest and marches forward, even as she kicks and whines.

"Fakir! _Fakir!_"

Though she be but tiny, she is fierce. Truly. How anyone so small can make such a ruckus is beyond him. "Keep trying to knock my jaw out," he starts, "and you're going over my shoulder instead. Take your pick."

"It's-!" she squeals as he steps in a puddle and slides, and before he knows it, her arms are laced around his neck. Holding on to him for dear life, she squeaks, "FAKIR. _DOWN._"

_People are sleeping,_ he thinks. _She'd_ been nearly asleep when he'd been driving. How she flip-flops so easily between docile and _flailing_ is beyond him. It must be exhausting, to maintain such duality, to be simultaneously so maddening and darling all at once. He doesn't know how she does it. He can barely manage to keep himself awake, most days, and only if he's got a pen in his hand does his more expressive nature ever come out. Even then it's still carefully measured, written in verses with narrative purpose. On his best days, Fakir is still only half as articulate as she is.

… If her outbursts can even be considered articulate. Perhaps he should rethink his wording. Ah, well. "Sorry," he says, hefting her closer to his chest. He very pointedly does not think deeply on the way she tucks her head against him, nor the way she presses her cheek against his collarbone like it belongs there or something, and closes the distance between her front door and their unceremonious caravan.

And because he is a coward who cannot face his feelings head on, he plops her onto her feet at her doorstep and immediately crosses his arms over his chest, feigning what, he hopes, is indifference.

Her bare feet slap against the wet concrete. "... Hey," she mumbles, pouting.

"I can't unlock your door."

Her glossy lips press together. "That's not.." she looks up at him, then, all spitfire and firecracker, and it's hard to believe she'd been nearly asleep merely five minutes earlier. "You didn't have to do that."

"You and I both know you're the stubborn one between us," he says bluntly.

Ahiru's cheeks pink, but she doesn't argue his point. It's the truth; but it's not a bad thing, not really. Only someone as stubborn as she is could ever break through his walls, could ever worm her way into Rue's heart, could ever help Mytho open up the way he has. She has this way about her, headstrong determination mixed with a heart perhaps too big for her to handle, and it makes for an unstoppable force of affection. An affection that has a massive, maddening blindspot - her own feelings.

_Do you think she's happy?_

Idiot. It's like she forgets she's a person too.

"... Whatever," Ahiru says, even though it's clear she still has so much more to say, and turns, fishing her keys out of her purse. "I still think you should just stay here tonight, you know-"

"I already told you, I'm not letting you sleep on your couch-"

"Then let me sleep in the bed with you!"

He freezes. She doesn't catch her outburst quite as quickly, and it's only when she's trying to stuff her key into the hole and push her door open does she finally fumble. Then it's clear the weight of what she'd said catches up with her, and she makes a cute little panicked sound in the back of her throat, not unlike a quack, and tries forcing the door open before she's turned the key in her haste.

But she doesn't take it back. Ahiru blushes so darkly he can barely make out her freckles from the heat of her face, but she doesn't take it back. She sucks her lower lip beneath her teeth and bulldozes on.

"... Is that what you want," he asks, carefully measured, still, even as the butterflies in his stomach threaten to make him do something stupid, like kiss her or something.

For all of her flustering, she's still doesn't miss a beat. Ahiru says, "It's what you want, right? For the both of us to sleep in a bed," and he's impressed that she only stutters twice.

"I said I'd sleep in my own bed."

"Stubborn!" she says, insistently, and Fakir lays his palm flat on the door, looming behind her. "You- just! I'm trying to be _helpful._"

He wonders who she's helping. He wonders, too, where her conversation earlier had been heading. _Has he ever thought about getting married? _What does it matter?

Fakir is not brave enough to box her in. He lingers there, instead, half a breath from her, and even though he's a head taller than her, he can still feel the heat of her skin, radiating from her as she struggles to insert a key into a lock.

Now is not the time to be cheeky. But. "Do you need some help?"

"What _I need_ is-!" She turns too quickly, and it's as if it finally dawns upon her what's actually happening. One step back, and then her back hits the door, and he's still looming there, watching her blush deeper, somehow, burning all the way to her ears. "... H… _Hey_."

He raises a brow.

Her lips press together, and a moment passes, contemplative. Then resolution sets in, and even as her lips twitch, she grabs the hem of his sweater and tugs. Not enough to stretch the fabric, but just enough to convey her intentions. She's pulling him forward, _toward_ her, and who is he to deny her, when she's being so uncharacteristically assertive?

"... Do you need some help?" he asks again.

Ahiru nods quietly. Doesn't move away, though, and so he stays still, too, and the rain might be thundering around them now but even just the sound of her breath is deafening. It's like the whole world has shrunk down to just contain them, this one moment, as Ahiru stares up at him with eyes like tiny oceans.

And it's like he's forgotten how to swim. How cheesy. _How pathetic._

Fakir struggles to tread water. Offers his free hand to her silently and accepts her apartment key. Wonders where this is going - why this is happening, even - as he takes his eyes off of her long enough to unlock her front door.

There's no way for him to push the door open without throwing her off balance. She has all of her weight leaning against the door now, back pressed against it as she watches him move, and it's almost permissive, the way she's allowing him to move around her. She has her head tilted back to look at him, and from this angle, he can make out her slender swan's neck, can watch the way she swallows as he closes in on her.

It's the closest they've ever been. They've flirted along this line before, teetering precariously between _friends_ and this, whatever _this _is, but he's never been brave enough to take the plunge. It's hard to feel like he deserves to, after thoroughly getting off on the wrong foot with her once upon a time. Even now, Fakir still feels like he's trying to make up for lost ground, still batting clean up. But it feels different, in this moment, rain thundering around them, and he leans down, dropping like a weeping willow.

Her mascara is unmanageably smudged. She's licked most of her lip gloss off. Despite it all, Ahiru is still the prettiest sight he's ever seen.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "... do you really think I'll find someone?"

It's the closest thing he'll ever get to an invitation. She's not slick, and certainly not very coy — clumsy Ahiru flirts like she expects to be laughed at if she makes her intentions clear, and the self-deprecating laugh that follows tugs at his chest so violently that he can't stop himself from closing the distance between them and kissing her.

It's soft. _She's_ soft. A little gasp escapes her lips as his come up to meet them, and Fakir feels soemthing sentimental balloon within him. Kissing her tastes a little bit like the tang of champagne and the starburst candies she'd been pulling out of her purse all night. Fakir finds that he likes it quite a bit, despite his lack of a sweet tooth.

He cannot allow himself to linger, though. Reality rears its ugly head, guilt rushing to pool in his gut. Had she said she wanted to kiss him?

Fakir retreats, hastily muttering an apology.

He barely gets a single word out before Ahiru's grabbing his face and tugging him back to her. And, well. Perhaps _this_ is the invitation he never thought he'd get.

Kissing her is like laying out in the sun. Impossibly warm, a little blinding, but nourishing in the most basic, nurturing way. Her fingers press into him, holding him more resolutely than he's maybe ever felt from her. He could die. He _does_ fulfill about a thousand daydreams and wedge his knee between her legs, effectively pinning her to her door as she attempts to kiss him silly.

Ahiru can do as she pleases with him.

She moves a hand from his face — presumably to take the hand _not _currently resting on the door and put it on her instead — but fumbles, in true Ahiru fashion. She misjudges his position, and instead of grabbing his hand she grapples with the doorknob, and then the earth is sliding out from behind her.

Flailing, she does that squeaking thing again. Fakir narrowly catches her by her skinny wrist before she has a chance to plummet to her doom, but the force of him tugging her up causes her to crash into his chest.

They pause. Ahiru lets out a shaky giggle of relief.

… It's the first time he's ever really held her like this, he realizes, as the moments tick on. She's hugged him before, of course. Because she's Ahiru. She's a serial hugger, and he doesn't think he's ever really had the gall to return the sentiment.

It feels nice. _She_ feels nice tucked beneath his chin.

"... Sorry," Ahiru says finally, shyly breaking the silence.

He snorts, resting his hand atop her head. "It's fine. I've always known that you're a bull in a china shop."

She squirms. "No. I mean," fidgeting, she backs up enough to peek up at him, muttering, "_yeah_, I am, but… I meant about. Um."

Oh. "Oh."

"I didn't! Um, I didn't mean to—"

Fakir flicks her on the nose. "Don't be stupid. And don't apologize for that either...I started it."

It placates her, oddly enough. A smile blooms on her lips, pretty and pink and smudged with sparkly gloss, and oh. He'd done that. That tacky feeling on his lips was her lip gloss.

The thought is almost perverse. Fakir kills it before it has the chance to gain traction.

"So you'll stay, then?"

He will either sleep soundly, wrapped up around her, or he'll be up all night staring at the ceiling. But it's hard to say no, especially now that she's looking up at him with those puppy dog eyes, now that she's gathered some of his sweater in her hands and seems rather reluctant to let him go. And it's nice, being wanted by her like this, so openly - it's nice, watching her be so selfish for once. If he can even call it selfish. Wanting something for herself shouldn't be considered selfish. He doesn't really consider it so.

He's fighting a losing battle, though. Fakir sighs and stares pointedly over her head. "I'm not sleeping in your bed."

"_Fakiiiir_."

It's too cliche for the best man to hook up with the maid of honor the night before the wedding. Fakir busies himself instead with pulling the bobby pins out of her hair. "... Do you even have anything for me to sleep in?"

She giggles and gives him a tug. "Let's get you dried off."

He'll just have to make do with high water leggings. Oh well. It's not like it's the first time - and judging by the way she grins as she tosses him a heathered-gray pair, it probably won't be the last, either.

If it makes her happy, he'll wear her damn frilly nightgowns. The resulting smile is worth it. Whatever.


End file.
